Posts by jamesbnicola


By on Feb 13, 2018 in Poetry | 10 comments

  Remember how I used to scrape off irritating little bumps as if perfect attainment of a suppler, less eventful shape, a peace at the expense of love, and armchair grace, had quite become      a sort of holy grail?   The day I finally attained the perfect peace I’d sought, I heard a voice from somewhere that explained the living’s really in the lumps.           I was struck dumb      but thought the thought...

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Rhyme #1: ‘Its use is not a burden’

By on Jul 23, 2017 in Poetry | Comments Off

Its use is not a burden but a clue There’s something after it, or me, or you. Rhyme can also make hot arguments Hop along, less hot, or harsh, or sad; Or, bind some disparate thoughts, as if they had A common quality of resonance. Young boys may have their soldiers, girls their dolls, But plastic playmates make for lonely souls; Twins have each other, though, and the delight Of tickling each other’s feet all night, Even the thought of which might be enough To thwart, in part, the flesh-inflicted curse Suggesting things are here to share, like love, A night, a couplet, or the...

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On the Ferry from Martha’s Vineyard

By on Jul 12, 2015 in Poetry | Comments Off

There is a cool fire, one that is inviting to touch with a half-promise it will not burn you. I’ve seen it in the eyes of kindness once or twice. But I saw it or something like it too when I rode the ferry from Martha’s Vineyard back to Massachusetts after a busy day galumphing and happy when the sun was lowering. Suddenly the sea turned into a horizontal blaze and I into a child on a merry-go-round wanting to clasp the brass ring. At least that is how the ripples of the sea attracted me with their powers of enchantment at about 6:40 just as the day was thinking about turning again into...

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By on Jan 5, 2015 in Poetry | 1 comment

Midst purgatory’s weedfields sprouts one clover. On blinded shelves, between the pulp and pap, a dashed and stashed encryption offers sight as fortitude is found in looking over the life of Job, the context of mishap. And even the most sweat-sopped marish night about to drown you in its sea of horror dissolves in dawn: The dark defines the light. So if I’m looking at a fun-house mirror or through a curved perverted looking glass to spot a glimmer through a pane of terror of what you say shall never come to pass, it could be that you aren’t looking right. The dark of sunspots, after...

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